Renaissance
by starlightwalking
Summary: After a fall out with his friends and social activist leader Michael Darring, Rick Henries runs into a strange man who reveals to him his past life as Grantaire, and that unless he does something, his friends will die in a few days time. Rick rushes to save them, but even if he manages to mend fences and convince them, it might be too late... MODERN AU. Barricade Day 2015 Oneshot.


My contribution to Barricade Day. A modern AU, of sorts. Sorry if the names confuse you, changing them was important to the plot or I wouldn't have done it. This is set after Javert's suicide attempt in his timeline, but before barricades in the timeline of Les Amis. "Renaissance" is French for "rebirth", which I thought was appropriate. Thank you for reading!

* * *

 **Renaissance**

* * *

There was no reason for Richard Oliver Henries to keep coming back to Chetta's Cafe and Books, day after day. No logical reason at all. It didn't stop him, though.

Every evening after work, at 7:30 sharp, Rick would show up in time for Melony Wild's excellent cooking and a meeting of the People's Friends.

The People's Friends were a radical activist group, calling themselves "allies of the oppressed and the minorities", though more often than not, the members _were_ oppressed minorities. There were nine principal founders, though more than that showed up at each meeting.

Alexander Ferris was perhaps the smartest of them all. He was a kind but shy volunteer, a parental figure in their young group, and a philosopher with glasses and an unfortunate hipster fashion sense. Rick liked Alex, though they were not especially close, and appreciated his guiding advice both to him and the rest of the Friends.

His boyfriend, Emile Corret, was as outgoing as Alex was shy. Emile loved children, but he also loved the company of older friends. He shed warmth and cheer everywhere he went, though often he was forgetful and distracted. Emile always shook Rick's hand when he arrived in the Cafe, seeming genuinely glad to see him there.

Jamie Priest was soft, a poet and an artist. He had a sweet soul and an affectionate nature, loving braids and flowers. He was also tough and intelligent, and wary of those he did not trust. With Rick he was guarded, though he had begun to warm to him. Jamie needed time, he could tell, before he chose to open up like had with most of the rest of the Friends.

Ferrel Wellgood was an orphan whose abandonment had led to his involvement with the Friends. He, lacking a family, had adopted the people. He had a different way of thinking, always coming up with new ideas and playing the devil's advocate to broaden the Friends' minds and widen their perspectives. Ferrel was a friend to everyone, including Rick, and it was he who most often noticed when something was wrong.

Bernard Johnson was, in a word, tough. He was a fighter, strong and macho, though deep down he cared about the world ferociously. He was bold and resourceful, and, to Rick's delight, very free with his money. Bernard often bought him a drink, and that meant he was a good man in Rick's eyes.

Adam James was the youngest of the group, and quite a worrier. He was a hypochondriac and a medicine student. Adam was a likeable guy, and the whole group looked out for him, even Rick.

Adam's boyfriend, known as Chris by all, had the unfortunate birth name of Locklyn Brigham. "Unfortunate" summed Chris up pretty well. The poor guy was unlucky in the extreme, going bald at twenty-two and always losing his possessions. He remained cheerful through it all, and it was this that had first intrigued Rick when they had first met. Adam and Chris were Rick's closest companions among the Friends, and it had been them who had dragged him into this mess in the first place.

Then came the leader of the People's Friends: passionate, charismatic, beautiful Michael Darring. The first time Rick had met him, he knew he was in love. Michael, born Michelle, had come to activism first through his transgender identity. He was determined, radical, and empathetic, a glorious ideal for a group he had founded. The Friends found a leader in Michael. Rick found only heartache: his hopeless crush was made all the worse through Michael's scornful dislike of him.

Rick himself was the last original member of the People's Friends. He had depression and a drinking problem, but he was more than that: he was an artist, a painter, a fencer, a musician, and though often it was difficult to feel that way, he was a talented genius. Only, he was ugly, problematic, and hopeless. That was all Michael saw in him, and sometimes all Rick himself saw. Luckily, the others saw much more.

Apart from the original nine, there were many more members of the People's Friends. The proprietor of Chetta's Cafe and Books, Melony Wild, was Adam and Chris's girlfriend, who hosted and attended every meeting, joining in her boyfriends' endeavors.

Liz Ruan and her younger brother Gregory were regulars. Liz was not a very open person, but she was very enthusiastic about the People's Friends and their cause. Gregory was only twelves, and a more devoted or rambunctious twelve-year-old could not be wished for. Rick loved the little guy, as did the rest of the Friends. He liked Liz, too, and thought she considered him a friend, too.

Mark Prince, a friend of Emile, showed up occasionally. He and the rest of the Friends, particularly Michael, had some differing political opinions, but he still for the most part supported their cause. Rick thought the guy was hopeless, being clumsy, socially awkward, and completely out of the loop, but at least he was fun to confuse.

How Mark had ever got a girl like Colette Rounds, his girlfriend, Rick had no idea. She was beautiful and kind, wise and gentle. She was also very confident, intelligent, and the sharpest person he could ever hope to meet. Rick admired her more than he liked to admit.

Where Colette was, her father, Frank Rounds, the renowned philanthropist, usually followed. Most often, Mr. Rounds sat in the back of the cafe, reading a book and not really paying attention. Occasionally, he would wander up to the group and give his own input. Rick respected the guy, though he was a big softie and a sucker for a sob story.

Every once and a while, Officer Percival White, the toughest cop in town, would show up and lurk. He mostly wanted to make sure the Friends weren't planning anything illegal. He intimidated Rick, though Mr. Rounds had no problem striking up a conversation with White. He seemed to be friends with the officer, against all odds.

There were others, but Rick could never remember any of their names. It was hard enough keeping track of those sixteen.

This was where things stood when it happened. Rick headed off to another meeting of the People's Friends, rubbing his paint-stained hands. It had been a long day of disappointment. He hoped this meeting wouldn't be disastrous.

He walked through the door of Chetta's Cafe and Books and grinned, breathing in the good smells. Most of the group was already there, sitting or standing around their meeting table. Melony waved at him as he walked in, and he nodded back.

"What'll it be today, Rick?" she asked, handing Adam his meal with a smile.

"Just some coffee," he said, taking a seat between Liz and Jamie. They murmured their greetings. Melony nodded and headed back into the kitchen to brew him up some coffee.

"Hey guys," he drawled. The group, for the most part, greeted him cheerfully. Michael just ignored him. Well, it could have been worse.

"Is everyone here?" the blond activist asked, looking around.

"Mark and Colette haven't come yet," Alex reported. "And, of course, no Mr. Rounds."

"Colette texted me earlier," Liz announced. "They're running late, but they're coming."

"I asked Mr. Rounds if he could make sure Officer White showed up," Michael said.

"Why?" Rick asked, confused.

The leader scowled at him. "You'll see. I only want to announce this once. We'll wait until—"

He was cut off as Mark and Colette burst into the room, holding hands. The group greeted them with a cheer. They flopped down in chairs nudged toward them by Emile and Ferrel.

Behind them, Frank Rounds walked, followed by stiff, stern Percival White.

Mr. Rounds nodded to Michael with a smile, Officer White with a stiff expression.

"Mr. Rounds, Officer White," Michael said, walking up to greet them. He shook each man's hand in turn. "Thank you for coming."

"You're welcome," Mr. Rounds said. "I'm glad to come." He pulled up two chairs and sat in hone.

Before White took the other, the officer said to Michael, "Why did you request my presence, Mr. Darring? Usually, I'm not exactly welcome."

"I was just getting to that," Michael said. He walked back over to the table and stood up against it, staring at the group of activists.

Melony walked in and handed Rick his coffee, which he took with a murmur of thanks. Then she squeezed between Adam and Chris's chairs, sitting on half of each of their laps.

"Now that we're all here," Michael began, "I have an announcement."

"Do tell," Rick drawled, unable to help himself. "You wouldn't want to keep us waiting."

Michael shot him an annoyed glance, but he continued. "As you all know, the city council just passed a law legalizing sivanto, a toxic pesticide that is incredibly harmful to bees over long periods of time, and a future contributor to air pollution."

There was a low rumble of disgust throughout the room. Even Mark looked upset.

"Allowing this pesticide to harm bees, which are already disappearing at a disturbing rate, and to increase air pollution in rural parts of the city, is not something that we, as responsible citizens, should allow. There are other alternatives to chemical pesticides, _safer_ alternatives. The bees will suffer, and the people will suffer. We are the People's Friends. We ought to help them."

Michael looked radiant, his eyes blazing with anger and passion. He was so bright, Rick felt like averting his gaze to avoid being blinded. God, he was attractive, and fiery and determined. He enjoyed the atmosphere of the Friends, but he didn't think anything could be done about sivanto or air pollution or any other issue faced by the city. They were going to do it anyway. He just wished he felt differently, like maybe he _could_ change things, like Michael clearly felt. He could never have that.

"I propose we organize a protest," Michael announced. "A legal protest, of course. That's why I invited Officer White tonight, so he could help us organize something safe and legal."

Officer White pursed his lips. The whole group looked at him expectantly.

"I will aid you," the policeman decided. "Thank you for coming to me. This will be better than...a disaster."

"That's we're hoping to avoid," Emile said.

"Remember the protests after Ernest Stacks was elected as mayor two years back?" Alex added. The group nodded solemnly. Ernest Stacks was a heavily conservative politician, and his ascension to power had not been a welcome one among liberals. A protest had been organized, not by the Friends, for they had been an infant group at that time, which had quickly turned bloody. "We want to keep this safe, and peaceful. If we cooperate with the police, we can avoid police brutality."

Officer White sniffed disapprovingly. "The law is, I admit, wrong on occasion. Those who enforce it are not perfect as I once thought." He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "I regret to have taken part in that violence. I have since seen the world more...realistically."

Rick repressed a snort. The old officer was infamous for punishing every lawbreaker harshly and without sympathy, regardless of the severity of the crime. Since the Stacks protests, after which it was rumored he had attempted suicide, he had, seemingly had a slight change of heart. He was now more reasonable, and his faith in the pureness of the law had been shaken, as shown now. Still, old prejudices died hard.

"So you will help us now?" Ferrel asked.

"Yes," White confirmed.

"Right," Michael said, clapping his hands. "Alex and I were thinking we could meet here and begin a march down here toward the city center..."

They began to discuss plans for the protest. Emile was a fountain of new ideas. Alex smoothed the rough edge off his propositions. Michael kept everyone energized and excited, except for Rick, who he ignored as usual.

Ferrel, more often than not, brought up further issues with ideas. Rather than being annoyed, the Friends were grateful for having him notice those flaws before the plan was put into motion. Bernard pulled out his phone and began to contact other people he knew who might be interested in joining them (the guy seemed to know _everyone_ ).

Jamie, Adam, and Chris began to work on publicity posters and social media to get word out among the people. Liz, who knew some people in the city's underground, contacted them and began negotiations for further assistance. Gregory convinced Mark and Colette to get Mr. Rounds to donate some money to the protestors.

Melony noticed her friends were running low on food and hurried back into the kitchen to fix them up some more food, calling suggestions out from behind the stove.

Rick himself only sipped his coffee and watched his friends work, feeling disconnected from them. They were a bright blur, humming with motion, and he felt slow like he was stuck in syrup. He knew they meant well, but they always meant well, and that didn't mean things were going to work out. He, too, was upset about sivanto, but to a lesser degree, and he knew there would be no way for their protest to be effective. He would still show up, though—he would always show up, for his friends, if not for himself. And for Michael. To prove he wasn't completely useless.

At last, Rick set down his coffee and stood up. He made his way over to where Jamie, Adam, and Chris were working on their posters. Gregory had wandered over, too, after growing tired of bothering Mark and the Rounds family.

Well, "work" wasn't quite the right word. Chris had broken three pencils and a marker already, and he had also managed to cut himself on a pair of safety scissors. Jamie and Adam were involved in a braid train which had clearly been started by Gregory, who was now the only one coloring on the poster while Chris nursed a bleeding finger.

Rick felt around in his pocket for a bandaid (he always had a few on him for contingencies) and handed it to Chris, who took it with thanks. "Having fun?" he asked the braid train.

"I am enjoying myself to some degree," Jamie said thoughtfully. He sat in the middle of the braid train, weaving flowers into Gregory's messy, tangled dark hair while Adam put some more in his own ginger locks.

"Well—we _were_ working on the posters," Adam said, sounding apologetic. "But then—"

" _I'm_ working," Gregory interrupted.

Rick squinted down at the picture. "I didn't know zombies were attending our protest."

"They're the bad guys," the twelve year old explained.

"We're protesting on behalf of bees," Rick countered.

"Yeah, well the politicians who passed the laws can be the zombies," Gregory said. He picked up a yellow crayon and drew some bees. "They're chasing the bees. See? They're frowning."

"I see," Rick said. "Maybe we should add some contact info, though, before I succumb to the briad train as well."

He took a blank piece of paper and began to sketch. He drew a group of angry-looking people, the foremost of which was waving a flag bearing the image of a bee. It was indistinct, and he was not extremely satisfied, but the others were very impressed.

"I'll draw another one," Jamie said, picking up a crayon and letting go of a crestfallen Gregory's hair.

Chris pulled out his phone. "I'll tweet about it." Adam scooted over to his boyfriend and made comments on what he was typing.

Rick frowned. He had put the name of their organization, the cause of the protest, and the times Michael and Alex had proposed, but he couldn't recall the dates.

"What day were we planning this, again?" Rick asked aloud.

From across the room, Emile heard him and called out in answer, "June 6th, next Saturday!"

Rick scowled, setting down his pencil. He had work that day.

"I can't make it," he admitted. "I have to work."

Most of the group groaned sympathetically, but Michael just growled out, "Why do you even come here, Henries? You never show up to rallies, or anything else we plan, or—"

Rick stood up, clenching his fists. He didn't dare look perfect, stunning Michael Darring in the eye, but he did clench his fists and retort, " _Some_ of us have to work weekends, you know. NOt all of us were born rich, Darring."

The cafe had gone very silent. Everyone watched the two men in shocked silence, their eyes wide.

Michael only looked at him, his blue eyes wide. Rick looked at the ground and hissed, "Besides, I can tell where I'm not wanted." He turned and stormed out of the cafe.

"Rick—" Adam called after him, echoed by Chris and Alex, but Rick ignored them.

Just as he slammed the door closed, he heard Ferrel and Colette begin to rebuke Michael, but Rick didn't care. God, he hated Michael Darring. But God, how much more he loved him.

And who would want Rick, anyway? No one. The People's Friends were kind, sure, but they didn't _really_ care. Michael hated him, wouldn't talk to him. And he was worthless, talentless, useless. And he worked so much to scrape out a living. Michael was right. He didn't show up to events much—he was too goddamn busy.

In frustration, he turned toward the local bar, fishing for change in his pocket. It was time to drink his problems away.

* * *

Rick had spent far too much of his money at the bar. Far, far, far too much. The small, sober part of his brain knew this, but the large, drunk part didn't care.

He was talking now to an older man who had bought him several drinks. Rick rambled on and on, telling the man his life story and current troubles.

"'S just...not fair," he mumbled. "Like, he's like...so hot. So, so, so hot."

The man nodded understandingly. Rick, encouraged, continued, his speech slurred, "'N he...he's like, rich. His parents. They're rich. 'N he expects _me_...I'm so poor. So, so poor. I've got...two jobs. Minimum wage. He don't have to work. Just protest, protest. Homophobia, transphobia, racism, sexism, environmental issues...he'll fight that. But nothing 'bout...wage inequality. Nothin'."

"I'm very sorry," the man said softly. He bought Rick another drink, which he took gratefully.

"'N he just...hates me. Hates me. 'N...God, he's so hot. S'not my fault I can't come...God."

"Maybe it's better you don't go," the man sympathized. "I heard that protest will end bloodily."

"No," Rick said, shaking his head. "Peaceful protest. Even got Percival White t' help."

The man shook his head. "They're going to die, you know. Everyone who goes."

"No," Rick scoffed.

The man raised an eyebrow and reached over to grab Rick's arm.

Immediately, Rick saw a completely different bar. He looked around in confusion. The man was still there.

"Watch," the man said gravely.

Rick saw a group of young men, all wearing dated clothes from the 1800s, seriously discussing something. He blinked in shock, recognizing them—sort of. There was Michael, only it wasn't Michael. His hair was curlier, his nose smaller, his eyes darker. And Alex's voice, coming from a man who looked nothing like Alex—this man was white, for one, and Alex was black, and the new guy was short, and he didn't have Alex's glasses.

And there was Emile, only not Emile—this man was missing Emile's dimples, plus he was taller. And there was Jamie, but not, because Jamie was a redhead and had a long braid, and this man's hair was brown and short, but it was still Jamie. There was Ferrel, only taller; Bernard, only white, and shorter; Adam, only fatter; Chris, only with a mustache; and Rick himself, except it wasn't Rick.

"What the _fuck_ is going on?" Rick demanded of the man.

The man raised an eyebrow and suddenly Rick wanted to scream: the scene vanished, replaced by dirty streets and a ramshackle barricade; there were guns, there was blood—oh God, they were dead, all his friends, only not his friends, they were all dead!

Then he saw himself, holding Michael's hand, but then they were shot and down they fell, and they were dead too. Names, strange and foreign, burst into his mind: Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Jehan, Feuilly, Bahorel, Bossuet, Grantaire, Les Amis, _Liberté_ , _Egalité_ , _Fraternité_ —

He wasn't Rick anymore, he was Grantaire, and Grantaire _remembered_ —he remembered _everything_ —

He was cold and there was snow and somehow he knew he was in Russia, and he saw them all again, and their names flashed into his mind, only they were different now. He wanted to scream as he remembered, as he saw them all fall again, screaming _Lyudi, lyudi!_ He saw himself, reaching out to grab a dead and bloodstained hand, Vasilyev's hand, or that was, Michael's hand; and he was Maksimov and they shot him too and he fell with the word _Narodnik_ in his mind.

He was somewhere else now, and there were gunshots and people were dying all around him and he watched them all die for a third time. They were shouting and screaming about the British coming, and he felt anger and hate, he hadn't wanted to get involved in the Irish Revolution, but there had been a man named Driscoll who was shining and beautiful, and he had friends among the Volunteers, so he had gone with them but now they were dying, and he, Mitchell, he was dying too—

Now he was in India and the crowd was restless, the news was that Britain was going to finally leave them be, but who would be in control now? No one knew, and the Sikhs and Muslims were angry, and so were his people the Hindus, and then they clashed—he saw them die again, all of his friends, and he wanted to scream, and then Nagarkar, his light, the leader, grabbed his hand, they were the only two left, Nagarkar and Joshi, and he wanted to run away with him but he couldn't, they were closing in and then bang, bang—dead again.

How many times must he relive this? But it was not over yet, now they were in Thailand, and this rebellion was supposed to be peaceful, but something had gone awry and now they were killing in the streets. Did the leaders know about this, did they? There was one of them, the bright Mongkut Kurt, but Kurt had been shot and couldn't take message. He, Kaya, he ought to try, get away, maybe escape, he'd been pressured into this, after all—but then they got him too and he died screaming Kurt's name.

Then the man let go of his wrist and suddenly he was back in the bar and he was Rick again, only now he _knew_ —he knew he was something like a reincarnation, he was doomed to die again, they all were.

Too shocked, too drunk, too afraid to deal with any of that, Rick's eyes rolled up into his head and he passed out.

* * *

The bar turned around to look at the commotion, half ready to fight, half concerned. Hugo called out, "No big deal—just had a bit too much to drink, I'll take care of it."

Grumbling, the bar settled back down. Hugo grunted as he tried to pick up Henries' heavy bulk. A bartender helped him carry Henries out to Hugo's car. With a thanks and a tip, Hugo sent him back inside, then got in the car and started driving home. He was sober, having not drunk anything back at the bar, just giving the poor man in his backseat all the liquor he could handle.

Hugo drove Henries back to the young man's apartment, then dragged him up to his room. After fishing around in the unconscious man's pocket, he found a key and got in the house.

He placed Henries on his bed, then went into the next room and scribbled a note for the man when he woke up.

Then he left Henries' apartment, locking the door behind him. He hoped Henries would take his advice. And if he didn't...it would be another long wait before he could try again.

* * *

At 7:30 sharp the next evening, Rick was not in Chetta's Cafe and Books. He was done with the place, he thought, ater how Michael had treated him that night. No more.

Adam and Chris, and a few others of the Friends, had tried to convince him to come back, but Rick had ignored them. For the next few days, he ignored all his friends, determined to stay mad at them.

He had ignored the hallucination (or maybe it had been a dream) he had experienced the night of the fall-out with the Friends. Obviously, he had just been drinking too much. That sort of thing happened when you had too much alcohol in you. It wouldn't have been the first time. He did wonder, though, how he'd managed to get back to his apartment. He must have been too drunk to remember catching a cab home.

On Saturday, he noticed a piece of paper on the counter as he was rushing out the door on his way to work. He stuffed it in his pocket, too busy to read what was on it—probably a grocery list or something—right at that moment.

He worked long and hard that day, scowling as he noticed the time when all the others would be gathering for their protest. He felt his phone buzz, meaning he'd received a text, at around 2:20, and he decided to check it on his break ten minutes later.

There were the text from before, the People's Friends apologizing for Michael and begging him to come back. He had replied to those messages shortly, then ignored any coming after that.

This new message wasn't from anyone he had texted before. Frowning, he checked to see what it read.

 **4546819:** hey rick. this is Michael Darring. adam gave me your number. i'm really sorry about earlier this week. i spoke too quickly. i realize now that i was wrong to accuse you of not caring. i don't talk to you much bc i dont really know what to think of you. we're heading out for the protest no. we all really miss u, rick, even me. if you can make it late to the protest, we'd love to see you. if not, that's cool. you were right, my job is easy, and im rich, so i dont really have to work like you do. i understand you have to work to support yourself. that comes first. im sorry for implying it didnt. even if you cant make it today, please consider coming back to meetings. thanks. —MD

Rick read the message over and over again, making sure he wasn't imagining things. Michael had really sent this to him? It seemed sincere. And that part about not knowing what to think about him...well, it certainly wasn't a compliment, but his heart lifted. Maybe Michael didn't hate him, after all. Not that this meant he had a chance with him, of course.

He frowned. He had forgotten the piece of paper he had shoved into his pocket up until that moment. He took it out now and unfolded it. There was a note scribbled onto in in unfamiliar handwriting.

 _Mr. Henries—_

 _What you saw last night was not a dream or a hallucination. It was a flashback to a past life, where you were Grantaire, a French man who died tragically alongside Les Amis de l'ABC, a revolutionary group fighting against the Parisian monarchy._

 _Ever since that original death, you and Les Amis have been, for lack of a better word, reincarnated five times. Each time, you have been similarly killed in a violent cycle of death and subsequent rebirth. I do not know why this is happening. Perhaps it is fate, but I believe it can be stopped._

 _I, Hugo, have been a recorder of your actions, but I grow weary. I cannot die as the cycle continues. Break it, live a happy life, and I will be free._

 _Your friends will die this very Saturday if they attend the protest they are planning. Please, I beg of you, prevent them from going._

 _With regards,_

 _Hugo_

Rick felt all his memories crash down upon him again. His lives, in France, in Russia, in Ireland, in India, in Thailand, and now in the United States, flashed before his eyes. He saw himself fall, each time after seeing the rest of Les Amis die, each time reaching out imploringly, trying and failing to save himself and the man he had first known and loved as Enjolras.

He knew it was real. He knew what was coming. He knew that this strange man, Hugo, was right—he had to stop it. He had to stop his friends from attending the protest. But Michael had sent that text nearly half an hour ago, and he had to work.

He pulled out his phone again and scrambled to text Michael back.

 **Rick:** thx 4 ur apology but mike im not shitting you here—DONT GO TO THE PROTEST, u WILL DIE u probs think im crazy but DONT GO

He sent the message, panicking. A few minutes later, Michael texted him back.

 **Michael:** rick r u ok? it's perfectly safe, Off. White is w/ us  
 **Rick:** PLZ  
 **Michael:** look im sorry u cant make it, ok? just bc u dont believe in our cause, just bc you cant make it doesnt mean the rest of us have to stop  
 **Michael:** this is for the people  
 **Rick:** this is for BEES  
 **Rick:** and i do believe in this!  
 **Michael:** no u dont  
 **Rick:** at least i believe in u!  
 **Michael:** im turning my phone off.

Rick swore. Now he was mixing himself and his past lives up. As Dmitry Maksimov, he would have cried, Maksimov did a lot of crying, mostly because of Nikifor Vasilyev, and he felt like crying again; but Rowan Mitchell would have laughed uneasily and taken another swig of beer, trying to forget about Finnagán Driscoll and his rash bravery (Mitchell was an apathetic man, he would have given up right then). As Joshi, he had been closer to Vasu Nagarkar, they had been friends, but Nagarkar would still never have believed in something as foolish as this, but Joshi would have _tried_ to fix it. Klahan Kaya would never had cared, the rebellion had been something to do on a weekend for him, and even though Mongkut Kurt was a man he would have followed into battle, he wouldn't have followed him into death.

But mostly right then he felt like Grantaire, the original him, angry and himself and angry at Enjolras. Grantaire would have done something more; he, out of all of them, had been given a chance to live, and he did not take it, he was devoted to his friends, and though he knew it was hopeless, Richard Oliver Henries would go now and try to save his friends or die trying.

He shoved his phone in his pocket and hurried over to his boss.

"Hey," he said, "so I get off at five, but I'm having a family emergency right now."

"What happened?" his boss asked.

"My dad had a heart attack," he lied easily. "He's in the hospital right now. My mom wants me to be with her—"

"You can go, but I'm not paying you for today," his boss said.

Rick scowled, but he was lucky to have got off so easily. He thanked his boss, then quickly got ready to leave and nearabout ran out of there.

He could catch a bus to the city center, where protests were taking place. He got on the bus only a few minutes later.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

"The city center," he replied.

She frowned. "There's a protest going on there, you know. Cops aren't happy. I'd stay away."

"I have to get there," he said urgently. "ASAP."

She glanced backwards. There were only a couple other people on the bus. "I can get you to where they've blocked off the streets."

Rick was so happy he payed extra. One fitful bus ride later, she let him off and he raced through the crowd, shouting until people would let a short chubby guy through.

At last, he saw his friends. There was a wall of cops between him and them, all looking angry.

He caught Michael's eye. The blond man looked at him in confusion as he waved a sign in the air bearing the phrase "STOP SIVANTO—SAVE THE BEES!"

Rick tried to get through the wall of policemen. He couldn't see Officer White anywhere—wasn't he supposed to be helping them?

"Lemme through!" he demanded, trying to push past the closest cop.

The man turned on him and scowled. "Stay back!"

"Save the bees, stop sivanto, keep our air clean," the protesters chanted. Rick could see more people than just the People's Friends there, too.

"No—I'm one of them—let me _through_ —" he growled.

The officer laughed and grabbed him by his shirt collar. Rick caught a whiff of alcohol on the man's breath. A police officer drinking on duty? It was probably the only reason he and the others were getting so riled up about bees and pesticides.

"One of them, huh?" the cop growled. "We've got another one of you bee-lovers with us here, too!"

Rick struggled in the officer's grip, but he went limp with shock as he saw the unconscious body of Jamie Priest lying crumpled on the ground. "Jamie!" he screamed.

The officer shoved him to the ground forcefully. "Go and join them, but you'll all be like that soon!"

Rick scrambled closer to his friends. His elbows and palms were bleeding, and his shirt was ripped. Three people raced forward and dragged him to safety. As he got a good glimpse of them, he saw for a moment, Bossuet, Joly, and Musichetta. Then he blinked and it was Chris, Adam, and Melony again.

"You okay, Rick?" Adam asked. He gasped in shock. "You're bleeding!"

Rick grunted, stumbling to his feet. He brushed off his arms. "I'll be fine."

"Glad you could make it after all!" Chris said. Melony grinned at him and offered him one of her signs.

Rick took it, but he wasn't smiling. "We have to leave _now_ ," he said seriously. "They got Jehan—I mean, Jamie—and they're going to kill all of us!"

"Jehan?" Melony asked, confused.

"Nevermind," Rick said, grabbing her arm. "Go tell the others—they'll kill us all!"

"Where's Officer White?" Chris asked.

Adam frowned. "I don't know."

Javert. Damn that traitor. He'd betrayed them again. Grantaire swore. Bossuet, Joly, and Musichetta obviously weren't going to help. He had to convince Enjolras on his own.

He left them, dropping his sign, and dashed over to Michael Darring.

"Michael," he said, panting.

"Rick!" the man said, and for the first time he looked genuinely happy to see him. Rick's belly warmed. He remembered pining after this man, or versions of him, for six lifetimes. As Grantaire and Enjolras, they had died holding hands; as Maksimov and Vasilyev he had clutched his bloodstained wrist before expiring; as Mitchell and Driscoll he had watched him fall with anguish in his heart before falling himself; as Joshi and Nagarkar, they had died in a close embrace; as Kaya and Kurt he'd died with his name on his lips. He didn't want to die again, regardless of how close they were this time around. If he didn't move quickly, though, they would die together again.

"Mike, we've gotta leave," he urged. "I'm not kidding, do these guys look friendly? And where did White get off to?"

"Percival's trying to calm them down, get them to give Jamie back," Michael said. "They're getting really worked up over just some pesticide protesters. We'll be fi—"

"You're all going to die, faggots!" one officer cried out. Rick scowled at the use of the offensive slur. This wasn't even about queer rights, it was a protest for _bees_. What was their problem?

The officer fired a bullet into the crowd and he became even more indignant, with a dose of horror on the side. Immediately the crowd of protesters began to shout louder, with anger and fear. Rick hoped no one had been hurt.

"He's hit!" an unfamiliar voice cried out. Rick's heart clenched in terror, and he desperately hoped it wasn't one of the Friends.

Michael's face paled. "Maybe you're right," he said. "The bees can wait, we need to keep the people safe. Let's—how can we—?"

"You'll come up with something," Rick said. Then, a wild euphoria seized over him—they were all going to live!—and he did something he never would have done otherwise. He reached out, pulled Michael forward by the shirt collar, and kissed him right on the mouth.

As quickly as he'd done it, he let go. He felt blood rush to his cheeks. Michael's fair face was flaming red.

"Rick, I—I—" he stammered.

"We have to go," Rick mumbled. Around him, he was faintly aware of everyone gawking at them. The police were shouting angrily. Homophobes.

"G-go," Michael stammered. He swallowed, then grabbed Rick's hand and said quietly. "Yes. Go."

He turned to the officers. "Um. I don't—I don't think this is going to turn out well. So, um—we're s-sorry for the inconvenience, we're going now." As the officers stared at him in confused anger, he added hastily, "Sivanto still sucks and we hate it, but this isn't a...good protest."

"Let them go!" White's voice shouted over the commotion of angry cops, though Rick couldn't see where he was. "Obey your protocols!"

Rick drooped in relief. It looked like they really were going to survive this time after all. He tugged on Michael's hand.

"Let's go, before they change their minds," he told Michael.

The activist nodded. "We're leaving now, before things get more violent!" he shouted to the protesters. "Safety is most important!"

Grumbling, the protesters turned to leave. Michael watched them go, clearly intending to leave last.

"Enjolras, we should go, too," Rick urged. Then he cursed, having messed up Michael's name, confusing him with his past self.

Michael turned to him, looking puzzled. "What did you just call me?"

"Enjolras," Rick admitted. "I'm sorry, Michael, it was a slip of the tongue—"

Michael closed his eyes and began to sway. Rick, concerned, grabbed his arm to keep him steady.

"I... _mon Dieu_... _lyudi_... _jānā_ ," Michael mumbled. He looked up again, his eyes blazing, and gripped Rick's arms. "You knew?"

"J-just today," he stammered. "The man, Hugo, told me, and—"

"Grantaire," Enjolras whispered. Then he leaned forward and kissed Rick.

The world went still and all Rick—or Grantaire—or Maksimov or Mitchell or Joshi or Kaya—he didn't know anymore—all he knew was Michael Darring's sweet, soft lips. Never had he dreamed of kissing him—well, that was a lie, he had dreamed of it throughout six lifetimes, but this was better than any dream.

And then the bliss ended abruptly, replaced by horrible pain in his side. A bullet ripped through him and he began to bleed and bleed. Blood pounded in his ears and he could hear shouts and Michael in front of him crying and screaming but he didn't know what was going on.

It hurt it hurt it hurt and he was Grantaire again and bullets ripped through his body and he fell to the ground like a thunderbolt, but then he was Maksimov and a bullet tore through his throat and he choked on the blood and clutched Vasilyev's hand, now he was Mitchell and they got him in the head and everything went black; he was Joshi and they struck him but once and the pain was unbearable; he was Kaya and they got him six times before he died.

And now he was Richard Oliver Henries and it hurt and his eyes rolled up into his head and he knew no more.

* * *

When he woke up, he was lying in soft sheets. His side still hurt, but less so.

He rubbed his eyes and yawned. His body ached, but not terribly so. He sat up and observed his surroundings.

He was in a hospital, that much was clear. And he was alive, he could tell. In the bed next to him was Jamie, awake and reading a book. On the other side of him, Michael sat in a chair, fast asleep.

"Hey," Rick said to Jamie. The poet smiled and waved at him.

"Hello, Rick," he said. "You've been out for a while."

"What happened to you?" Rick asked.

"I offended one of the cops," he sighed. "They beat me up. Probably the first time they hit a white kid. They almost went for Bernard, too, but Ferrel pulled him back. What happened to you? I thought you weren't coming?"

"I got off early," he answered. It was only half a lie—he didn't want to get into the mess with Hugo, not yet. "I swung by, convinced Mike here to leave before things got violent, and they shot me while we were—um—kissing."

"You—and Michael?" Jamie exclaimed. "I was wondering why he in particular was here! God, you two took your time!"

Rick blushed. "Seems he didn't hate me after all."

"He never hated you," Jamie said seriously. "He just didn't know how to handle what he felt for you, so he pushed you away. It wasn't good, but he didn't hate you."

Rick blushed redder. "Michael—" he began.

At the sound of Rick saying his name, the blond activist woke up. "Rick!" he exclaimed, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. "You're awake!"

"Yeah," he said, embarrassed by the relieved look on Michael's face. "Listen, about earlier—"

"What about earlier?" Michael said, a little too quickly for Rick's liking.

"I just meant—um—the kiss—"

"Oh!" Now Michael was blushing, too. "I—yeah, that." There was an awkward pause. "I didn't know you...I mean—"

"God, how could you _not_ know?" Jamie interrupted. " _Everyone_ knew—Alex or Emile _must_ have told you—?"

Michael blushed again. "I was...confused. About my own feelings. I assumed you wouldn't like me; after all, you didn't seem very dedicated to our cause."

"There's more to life than politics," Rick said, exasperated. "Enj—Michael, you're like, the most perfect man I've met, you're beautiful and brave, and I've loved you since the day I met you."

"Love's a strong word," Jehan remarked. "I'm a poet. I'd know."

"Priest, this is a private conversation!" Rick said, throwing up his hands.

Jamie grumbled, "Fine, I'll leave, go to the bathroom or something, wander around 'til the doctors shove me back here." He got out of his bed and sauntered out of the room, wearing an unflattering hospital robe. With a shock, Rick realized the poet was opening up to him, treating him like he did Michael or Ferrel or Emile or the rest.

"He _is_ right, you know," Michael said, breaking the silence. "Love is a strong word."

Rick sighed and looked him in the eyes. "Enjolras. You remember now, don't you? All the lives we lived together? You were also Nikifor Vasilyev, Finnigán Driscoll, Vasu Nagarkar, and Mongkut Kurt. I've followed you through six lifetimes, Michael Darring, and I've loved you in every one. I mean it."

Enjolras smiled, his face lighting up. Grantaire smiled back, sure he looked just as silly and illogically happy as he did. "Oh, Rick," Michael Darring sighed, "I think I love you too."

* * *

It was weeks later before Rick saw anything of Hugo again. After he had been released from the hospital, he had moved into Michael's place. The whole group was excited they were "finally" dating. Rick felt happier, too. Not all his problems were solved, of course, but at least this one was.

After the news of the violent protest got out, the media went crazy. Lawyers were now looking into the police department, Officer White had been promoted, and the pesticide law was on its way to bring repealed. The man who had been shot in the crowd had made a full recovery, as had Rick and Jamie. And even after his boss had found out he actually hadn't had a family emergency, he hadn't lost his job.

Almost a month later, Rick was on a work break when he noticed Hugo again. The strange man made his way up to him.

"So." Rick crossed his arms. "I did it. We're all alive."

"Thank you," Hugo said simply. "I will rest soon. And your souls will rest as well."

"I told Enjolras," he said.

"Did he believe you?" Hugo asked.

Rick nodded. "Yes. He remembers. We didn't tell anyone else, though."

"Good," Hugo said approvingly. "They don't need to know."

"So I'll never see you again?" Rick asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"I hope not." Hugo offered him a crooked smile, full of weariness. A few weeks ago, Rick would have felt the same way he did. Now, without the threat of imminent death and also with a boyfriend, he felt much more satisfied with life.

"Good. Well, thanks," he said, and he meant it. Without Hugo's help, who _knew_ how many times he would have had to die.

"And thank you, too, sir," Hugo said, tipping his hat in thanks.

They parted ways. Rick never saw him again, true to his word. The cycle had been broken...now was the time to live.


End file.
